


Cold Heart, Sweetheart

by Caelucere



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, I still have a zero percent clue of what exactly i'm doing but hey, Widowmaker-centric, the world could always use more widowtracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7587796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelucere/pseuds/Caelucere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widowmaker is used to her being an annoyance, a pest that she can't quite rid herself of. An interruption, an irritation.<br/>What she isn't used to is Tracer being a danger, and it's only when she's staring straight into her eyes, gun in hand, that she realizes this woman is a liability of the worst kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Heart, Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more messy fanfiction!  
> This was originally more focussed on D.Va and Widowmaker but Tracer appeared and suddenly it became Widowtracer. Not like I regret that, mind.

“You’re Amélie Lacroix, right?”

Hearing a voice behind her when she’s scoped and about to headshot an enemy is an annoyance at the best of times. That voice being an enemy voice is an additional level of irritation that makes even Widowmaker’s eyebrows twitch in indignation.

That voice being high-pitched and ridiculously cheery cockney?

Now that goes beyond an annoyance, beyond an irritation and into the realms of a full-on _pest_.

The sniper is on her feet in an instant, heel grating against the frosty surface of the roof in a similar way to how the peppy spirit in front of her is somehow managing to grate on her desensitised nerves. She instantly unequips the scope and shoots for the head with a deadpan “no”, but the girl’s gone, and despite her perpetual calm she feels a spark of frustration. She triumphed back in King’s Row, but that was a different situation. King’s Row had been a closer call than she’d dared confess to her Talon superiors, a bruise on her pride as an assassin. Now if only this nuisance would just stand still long enough to be killed, she could proceed easily.

She hears laughter behind her, and Widowmaker is reminded of a fly buzzing around her on a hot sunny day. The difference here being that she can swat flies.

Still, she pivots to face the young woman, submachine gun at the ready as a reminder to not get complacent. Oxton leans back against a chimney, pose so nonchalant it almost seems mocking and a quiet confidence in her ability to avoid any bullets radiating, and her smile is wide enough to make Widowmaker want to smear it off her face. By force, if necessary. But she’s a tactician, and despite bumbling appearances she’s aware that this particular Overwatch operative is likewise. Letting herself be goaded would be letting her win, and Widowmaker would not let this one defeat her.

“I thought Siberia was cold,” she practically chirps, “but it turns out that’s just the shoulder you’re giving me.”

There’s an acute silence on both sides with only the sound of distant gunfire and the low industrial churning of Volskaya Industries being faintly audible in the background.

“It means-“

Widowmaker shifts the gun’s weight, letting the metal clink as a reminder of its presence. “I understand the phrase.” She deadpans, voice void of anything even vaguely resembling amusement.

“Oh.” That seems to knock her cheerfulness back a notch – for approximately two seconds. “’Course you did, sweetheart, you’re-“

A shot strikes the brick next to her face, terracotta chunks flaking off. The Englishwoman winces, but her goggles protect her eyes and she doesn’t blink away.

“I am not a sweetheart.”

“But you’ve still got a heart, yeah?”

Widowmaker pauses. It’s a stupid question, and she quite frankly can’t reconcile herself with the idea of dignifying it with an answer. She may not have a pulse anymore, but there’s still a heart in her chest. Not that she needs it anymore, or uses it, but it’s still nestled there behind her ribcage, extinct and probably fossilised by this point in time. Talon didn’t take it out for some reason.

The problem is that the woman in front of her seems to misinterpret that pause, because she beams like a too-bright sun, the kind that makes her squint and shield her eyes and wish she were somewhere else. “That’s what I thought. Colder than this place, maybe, but-“

She blinks away just in time to avoid a volley of bullets. Widowmaker sees her reappear on the ground and briefly considers activating her scope again and ridding herself of this bothersome Brit for once and for all, but she’s out of sight before she can line up a good shot.

That’s what she tells herself (and what she later on tells her superiors), anyway.

* * *

 

She’s under the mercilessly hot sun of Ilios, perched on a baking roof. The white buildings seem to glow in the midday sunshine, and Widowmaker just wishes that, for once, they could operate in weather conditions that aren’t an extreme nuisance. Still, she isn’t complaining. It’s much easier to spot targets in the bright light, and even moreso when they stand out as so stark a contrast to their surroundings. She hardly even needs the scope here, although a pair of sunglasses would be appreciated, for its aggressively harsh light forces her to squint.

Lena Oxton is still top on her list of “annoyances to headshot at the earliest available opportunity”, but her keen ears pick up the telltale clunking metal footsteps of number four approaching, and she decides that’s good enough for her.

“Okay, _mom_ ,” comes the voice of the mech’s pilot. The tone confirms her deduction that it’s none other than Hana Song. She says the second word with a mocking lilt, although there’s an undercurrent of affection to it. “I’m nearly done scouting out the well. Lone Ranger swears he heard something in the direction of the lighthouse, so he’s gone to join Doctor Who and investigate it. There’s nobody round here anyway. I’ll come back and join you as soon as I’m done, promise.”

It’s true that, besides Widowmaker, there are no Talon operatives stationed around the well. She was ordered to pick off any stragglers if she could, and inform of a larger group if necessary. Apparently there are ‘precautions’ that have been taken, whatever was meant by that. She didn’t ask. The order was clear enough.

Her eyes narrow as she crouches and shuffles closer to the edge of the roof. This recent recruit to Overwatch has proven to be a royal pain in the neck during every single mission they’ve crossed paths. Not because she’s necessarily a danger to the sniper, but she’s a nuisance nonetheless. It’s impossible to kill her in one shot, and it always feels like the moment the brat’s out of one mech, she’s in another and has a pane of near-bulletproof glass impeding every otherwise perfect headshot. To make matters worse, she’s mobile, and although Widowmaker’s good enough at escaping to not be riddled with pulse munitions from her cannons, it’s always an inconvenience to have to relocate from her perfect spot. And her cheerful, peppy one-liners rival Oxton in terms of annoyance – it feels like her having to grappling hook away from a teenage pro-gamer in a bright pink mech spouting unfamiliar acronyms is the punchline of some tasteless joke.

That’s why she speaks into the communication frequency, voice low so as to not be heard, although she doubts that D.Va can even hear her over her own obnoxious voice as she speaks to herself. More acronyms. ‘Ugh’ is the only applicable adjective.

“Widowmaker here. Activate precautions.”

In true Talon style, the precautions are of the explosive variety. Fortunately for the organisation, they are not rigged up to the building she’s currently perched upon, but to the other side of the square, where the girl is walking her mech, or she’d be making it crystal clear to them why they ought to be more precise with their briefings.

Scratch that, she’s going to make sure they know anyway, because the acrid smell of smoke and whatever chemicals they put into that one stings her eyes and coats the back of her throat, puts a bad taste in her mouth and, worst of all, clouds her vision. She manages to avoid the debris by flattening herself against the roof, but if she hadn’t then she could have gotten scratched up and that would have been categorically unacceptable.

Widowmaker supposes that it could be worse, however, because the sound of the explosion doesn’t quite manage to drown out the loud, frantic Korean that she’s sure must be cursing and that gives way to a full-on shriek. She can’t make out what’s happened in the smoke, however, but the sound is indication enough that the ‘precautions’ have at least achieved something, which is more than the incompetent underling imbeciles that she’s forced to work with usually manage.

She waits for the dust to settle somewhat. The sea breeze, gentle in spite of the drastic event that just occurred, lightly dissipates the smoke so that she can see. The whole front of the building has been blasted off, black soot marks starkly smeared across the whitewash. In the midst of the debris the mechanical suit is half-buried, although the cockpit seems to have avoided the worst of the damage. From this distance, she can’t make out any more, and she’s about to equip her scope when she hears a sound again.

A grunt of pain, then another Korean word, this one sounding like it’s been hissed through gritted teeth.

The sniper grits her own teeth. Trust her colleagues to leave a job half-done. Sometimes she thinks she’s the only person within Talon, besides Reaper (who’s more than insufferable enough in his own right) who ever sees anything through to the end. Widowmaker sidles off the roof she’s on, landing on the floor with her heels making a slight click, but the girl inside the suit doesn’t seem to hear her. She’s too busy speaking frantically to the rest of her team. There’s panic evident in her voice, but she still maintains some vestiges of her bravado and that’s impressive as well as being irritating.

“D.Va here. In case any of you just heard that explosion, that was by the well. Happened right next to me too, just my luck. Can’t see shit from this angle – sorry, Mercy – and my mech’s buried under debris. Think it must be pretty busted up too. I mean, I know it’s damaged because my leg’s fucked – sorry again, Mercy.” Her voice trails off into pained chuckles, humourless and weak. “I’m gonna, uh, see if I can get out and try to get to shelter. Don’t think there’s anyone around but I’d rather not be a target out in the open. J-just, can someone get here ASAP?”

That wavering at the end says it all. Widowmaker stops under the cool shade of an overhang from a nearby building. Patience. It will be much easier to kill the girl when she’s out of her suit. And besides, it’s nice to be in the shade after an hour in glaring sunlight. She keeps a keen eye on the target though. All the best predators have patience, but they also keep their focus. Waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

There’s a hissing sound as the mech cockpit opens, then the clicking of a harness being undone. Unfortunately, she’s at the wrong side, so the debris and the machine obscure what would otherwise be a good shot. Widowmaker tucks a stray strand of hair back into her ponytail while she watches. A cry of pain rises, then is cut off by more gritted teeth. Still, there’s a high pitched keening, barely restrained, as the girl tries to pull herself out, culminating in another surprised yelp and a thump as she manages to free herself like a cork popping off a champagne bottle. Except in that circumstance, the liquid that comes out is alcoholic. She watches Song begin to drag herself away, grunting with the effort, and only sees a trail of blood.

Really, she can’t blame the girl for her description. The metal of the mech suit must have been crushed in the impact, and Widowmaker assumes that the struggle of getting out must have meant that her leg was stuck in the mess. The limb is completely mangled from the knee down, limp and useless and hardly resembling an appendage at all. The region up to her mid-thigh has fared slightly better, although there’s a gash in her skintight suit that looks gruesome.

If there’s ever been a situation in which a target has basically been presented to the assassin on a silver platter, she supposes that this is it.

Although reluctant to leave the shade, she starts to stride forward, the telltale clicking of her heels against the paved ground being as good an announcement of her presence as any. By the time that Song’s turned her head to see her, she’s already stood no more than a few feet away. She can see the girl’s every thought process, and even with snot and tears on her face she’s remarkably composed for someone in her situation.

“That’s one hell of a fucking scum strat.” She spits. Widowmaker doesn’t say anything. The girl’s cocoa coloured eyes flick from her face, to the gun at her side, to her face.

The sniper’s lips twist into a smile, but it’s only meant to be mocking. “ _Bonne nuit, fillette.”_

She’s forced to take a step back when a projectile whizzes past her shoulder, and looks to see that the girl’s turned around fully now, and in her hands she’s clutching a pistol, shooting frantically as she scrambles back with her good leg, allowing the other to drag. Her aim’s not bad, but she’s at an awkward angle and is most likely still dizzy from the impact of being directly next to the explosion, and it’s almost pitiful how easy it is for Widowmaker to kick the pistol out of her hands. It goes skidding across the ground before plummeting into the well in the middle of the square, ending the girl’s last-ditch attempt with a whimpering splash that only manages to echo faintly.

Sweat glistens on D.Va’s forehead, and her soon-to-be killer assumes that it’s not just because of the Greek sun. She stares right at the gun that’s aiming for her head, and although her breathing is uncontrolled and betrays her fear her gaze remains fixed and true, stubbornly defiant.

Widowmaker’s finger rests on the trigger. She doesn’t squeeze it, not yet. There’s something wrong – the thrill of the kill, the feeling of adrenaline and the burst of life within her core isn’t there. Her chest just feels hollow, and that makes her hesitate. Maybe it’s the girl’s age – she can’t be older than twenty, although such details have never stopped her before – or perhaps it’s the simple fact that this is an execution, not an assassination, but there’s something deeply unsatisfying about the whole situation that makes her falter momentarily.

Then, in the blink of an eye, someone’s in the way.

Or, more accurately, someone’s blinked to be right in front of her eyes, and that person is the last human being on the planet that Widowmaker wants to be presented with in a moment of weakness.

“Picking on a child, are we love?”

The affectionate term tacked on in the end is devoid of any of its usual cheer, or even the peppy goading that Widowmaker loathes. It sounds like a threat, and Lena Oxton’s dark brown eyes are the most fierce that she’s ever seen them. She stands in front of D.Va, squared right in front of the barrel of the gun, jaw grimly fixed, pistols of her own clutched in her hands. Her posture says it all, loud and clear, that she’s not moving from that spot.

This is it. This is the moment when she can rid herself of this pest for once and for all. She’s too stupid and far, far too noble to blink away like she usually does. All that Widowmaker needs to do is shoot, and that’s Tracer down for the count. She can even finish off D.Va afterwards. Numbers one and four off her list, that’s a productive afternoon. She can hardly believe her luck.

Once again, her pause is misinterpreted. To call Lena’s voice gentler would be inaccurate, because there’s still this undercurrent steely resolve, and a commitment to stay rooted to the spot. But another emotion lingers in her words that Widowmaker doesn’t understand, although she knows she’s heard it before in her life. Maybe even felt it before. It rings a resonant chord.

“C’mon, I know you’ve still got a heart.”

She doesn’t pull the trigger. Doesn’t move, either, but stands there, gun practically pressed against the glowing harness at Lena’s chest. All three women are silent, but the tension feels like a sound all of its own, so loud that it drowns everything else out. Only one of them is in a position to make any move, and despite everything, despite every rational thought in her mind telling her that it’s her job and it’s what she needs to survive, there’s something irrational coming from some other, foreign, disused part of her that’s telling her it won’t make her feel alive. That it’s not worth it. Which makes no sense, because she’s got nothing to lose and everything to gain in that moment, but this ridiculous, irrational portion seems to grow louder and louder and more desperate to make itself heard with each passing moment.

Lena doesn’t break eye contact with her.

The sound of a gunshot makes her step back, just as a bullet whistles past her and lodges itself in the wall behind. There’s another voice and another pair of footsteps and a deep south American accent that’s growing in volume as it gets closer and she curses under her breath when she realises that she hesitated for too long, missed her opportunity, and it’s for reasons that she doesn’t even understand. She can’t take on two Overwatch agents at once so she turns tail and runs, grapples to the nearest building and keeps on running. They’re not going to pursue her, neither Tracer nor McCree – they’ll be too preoccupied with their comrade – but she doesn’t stop, grapples and grapples and runs to put as much distance between herself and whatever on earth happened there.

Eventually, she allows herself to land in a secluded alleyway. She’s not sure how long she’s been running, but there’s no sound except for the hushed lapping of the sea against the stone walls below. It’s quiet enough and isolated enough for her to exorcise the irrational thing, the thing that somehow gripped her, the thing that was stored in Lena’s eyes.

(Oxton’s eyes. Tracer’s eyes. The Overwatch operative’s eyes. No matter how she phrases it, it’s still there and it’s potent.)

Rational thought takes over once again, and it thinks that she’s going to need one hell of a good excuse for whatever shambles took place there. It’s not like her. She never falters, and she wouldn’t be able to explain why even if she wants to. It strikes her that she needs a lie, a cover story.

The barrel of her gun rests against her calf, dangling loosely from her numb fingers. She grips it tighter, points it a little more directly. Then Amélie shoots.

Later on, she’ll tell her superiors that the brat managed to catch her by surprise and shoot her in the leg, and once Tracer appeared it was all she could do to flee the area. She’ll tell them this with a perfect poker face, unmoving as a marble statue, like Galatea, and they’ll believe her.

If only it were true, she thinks. It would be much, much easier for her if that was true.


End file.
